


what we may forget

by taiyakeo



Category: Haikyuu!!, The Binding - Bridget Collins
Genre: "@ memories: begone THOT", Angst, BIG love and thanks to toa and eath for helping me, But aren't we all, HQ Rarepair Bang 2020, M/M, TW: Homophobia, The Binding AU, and people called binders Suck Them Out, and traumatised, at least to me it's a monster!, books are filled with people's memories, into the books, it's basically like, it's been AMAZING writing this monster of a fic, just swallowed me whole, kuguri's a binder, like the one by bridget collins, pay f to pay respects for that title, shibayama's Farm Boy, specifically shibayama's father, the name of this fic in my docs is, throughout the writing of this work, tw: death, tw: falling into a well, tw: water phobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taiyakeo/pseuds/taiyakeo
Summary: Kuguri has been a binder for as long as he can remember. It's not the most honest work, but for the most part he doesn't regret it, especially not when it brings him Shibayama, a small farmer boy who wants to do nothing but forget. He lets himself become more and more wrapped up in Shibayama's life, forgetting that he, too, can become a memory.
Relationships: Kuguri Naoyasu/Shibayama Yuuki
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: HQ Rarepair Bang 2020





	what we may forget

**Author's Note:**

> special huge huge huge HUGE thanks AGAIN to [toa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWisteria/pseuds/LadyWisteria) and [eath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eathenflux/pseuds/eathenflux) for hyping this fic up and helping me with it;; like;; where would i be without yelling about this fic?? nowhere!!! toa is the sole source of my motivation and you can find her BEAUTIFUL art for it [HERE](https://everbrilliantheartbreaker.tumblr.com/post/614725214678417408/your-hair-is-like-the-leaves-shibayama-said-one) on tumblr and [HERE](https://twitter.com/ToaTepsak/status/1247442104734773251) on twitter! 
> 
> also, you can find her on [tumblr](https://everbrilliantheartbreaker.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/ToaTepsak) here!!!!!!!!!

It was a Sunday and halfway to sun-up when the boy came to him. He should have gone to Daishou or Kazuma, but neither were in the house. He could not remember Daishou having mentioned an appointment that day, but he saw no reason not to let him in. People hardly ever scheduled traumatic situations, after all. Most of Daishou's clients came in completely without warning. If he'd banked solely on appointments, they would have gone bankrupt. 

Shibayama Yuuki, he said his name was. 

The grayish pallor of his sunken, near skeletal cheeks was obscured partially by the dripping strands of hair plastered to the sides of his face. He was shaking ever so slightly, eyes darting from Kuguri's cheeks (he refused to look him in the eyes) to the rooms behind him, though out of fear or simply because he felt so ill Kuguri was unable to discern just from looking at him. His breathing was irregular and laboured; Kuguri guessed he must have come a long way, and quickly. Judging from the marks on his fingers and the windswept, disheveled state of his hair, he'd ridden for the majority of the journey.

Kuguri brought him through the hallway, ignoring the apology that spilled from his lips as he shuffled inside. 

"Come," he said. "We will go to the library." 

For just a split second he thought he saw fear flash bright in the boy's eyes, the only sign that he wasn't blindly following Kuguri around, but his expression quickly returned to the fatigued, worn-out one he'd had moments ago. He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. Kuguri led Shibayama to the stairs, gently nudging him by the shoulders in the right direction when he turned the wrong way. 

Shibayama glanced a little nervously at the glass window above the door, wincing as the sunlight flashed into his eyes, then down at the carpet at his feet. Kuguri was a little ways further up the staircase than he, looking back over his shoulder once in a while to ensure that Shibayama didn't slip, crack his head open and die. The carpet was red, so it would not matter very much if there was blood, but in any case, there was the smell to think of, and a corpse in the house--Daishou would hardly be pleased at all.

"It's been hot, recently." Daishou had told him to talk. Talk and keep talking, keep them awake, keep them aware. There were far too many opportunities for unpleasant things to happen otherwise. "What sort of work do you do?" 

"Farming." 

He startled when Kuguri spoke, as though he'd fired off a gun. It reminded Kuguri of the cats he used to feed by the doorway of the house; it'd always amused Daishou greatly to see them jump twenty feet clear in the air every time they were stroked or pet without expecting it. 

He answered the rest of the questions with a sentence or two at most, but at least he was answering. His eyes darted less, drifting over the various ornaments Daishou liked to put up--a vase here, a picture there, and in one place a basket filled with bread, strangely, but he'd never questioned it (not to his face, anyway)--and nibbling at his lip. He didn't seem to be taking it in, just staring but not seeing. Kuguri was losing him.

Then they reached the top of the stairs, and Kuguri opened the door to the library. Even in his distant, fuzzy-minded state, Shibayama reacted. Good. This was better than Kuguri had thought. He was swallowing again, one--two--three, throat drier than the fields outside, jaw clenching ever so slightly. His face had gone red.

"Sit." 

He did so, if a little clumsily, dragging the chair backwards instead of lifting it and sitting down so quickly the impact made him wince. Kuguri stood behind him, which made him glance over his shoulder. 

"Don't look." 

He turned his head back to look into the empty fireplace. His shoulders were still trembling. Kuguri moved to touch them, tapping his shoulder gently when he flinched. 

"Relax. I won't hurt you."

His muscles were still tense, his fists clenched and legs positioned like he was ready to jump out of the chair and run. Kuguri looked briefly to the door, wondering if he should have closed it. No matter. He tilted his head back, shutting his eyes and breathing out. Soon. Soon. It was coming. He reached for the pen on the desk.

\--

Shibayama tilted his head up to glance at the sun, brushing stray strands of hair out of his eyes and wrinkling his nose. His hands were deeply scarred; lines like lashes he'd seen on the other children's backs ran down his palms. The clotting process had already begun, clumps of crimson creeping like the vines growing up the walls of his house through the skin. The weeds had torn at his hands, but he never complained. It was good enough that there were enough crops to injure him. It was just that his mother worried so much about disease. He understood her concern; the doctor was so far away and they had hardly any money to pay him. He would not say that doctors were greedy. This particular doctor did his job and did it well, it was just that perhaps he could be a bit kinder. He knew that the people around this area were impoverished, and yet he always asked for his pay upfront; his mother always pawned things to save enough money in case there was anything that happened, and still it felt as though they were being robbed each time he came by. 

"Shibayama," Inuoka said, muffled, from beside him, tilting his head a little in greeting. His eyes were smiling while his mouth could not. A donkey had kicked him in the face not very long ago and his mouth was still warped, so he'd wrapped a cloth round the lower half of his face, consuming everywhere from his nose to his chin. "Has your father been well?" 

"Oh, yes," he lied. "I'm sure he'll be quite well soon." 

A raven flew overhead, cawing. He flinched; bird calls always scared him, just as badly as water.

The cloth shifted again. Shibayama guessed Inuoka was about to speak, but then stopped, blinking briefly. It must hurt, he thought sympathetically. He wondered why he even tried to do it, but Inuoka had always feigned strength where he couldn't summon it. Instead, he inclined his head towards the communal well, raising his eyebrows. _Has your family got enough water?_

Shibayama realised that Inuoka had two pails in his hands. He felt a pang of shame; he had not remembered, why had he let Inuoka remember for him? What a fool he was. One day his family would go thirsty and it would all be his fault. 

"I'll get water. Please give me the pails, you go home and rest." 

Inuoka squinted. Shibayama hated taking water, even if he never said it out loud (though he did make very obviously frustrated faces struggling with the well's handle and couldn't hide it very well), but after a moment of silence and Shibayama pointedly looking at his injury--even if Inuoka pretended he didn't care, he did feel self-conscious about the cloth, and going by the well where the housewives who didn't do anything tended to linger, gossiping, wouldn't help--he handed over the pails. He nodded his thanks again, bumping Shibayama with his shoulder. 

"Goodbye," Shibayama said over his shoulder, lifting his shoulder to wipe a bead of perspiration as it ran down his face. He could never help sweating in summer no matter how lightly he tried to dress; his mother often joked that it wouldn't have been necessary for them to go and collect water if only they could find a way to tap his perspiration. 

He wandered over to the well, trying his best to stand straight and not show the effort it took just to carry the pails. He was far from the strongest boy in the town, and it showed, though he was nimble with his hands. When compared with a regular boy who did less intensive work, he was obviously leagues stronger, but on the farm, he was one of the weakest. It made him ashamed, for people often talked about him. Hey, girl, one of the boys would call at him, jeering and laughing, and the older ladies who liked to hang around instead of doing work would murmur under their breath that he would have been better off had his family simply pretended that they had a young woman and sold him off years ago, or dumped him into a lake somewhere. 

The pails clanked in the weak wind that swept past, the jarring noise of metal against metal making somebody passing by turn and stare at him for a brief moment. The area around the well was strangely empty. He wondered if there was something wrong as he looped the rope round Inuoka's pail. He had never been allowed here alone; everyone always feared that somebody as small in frame as he would fall in, but he'd never slipped. As he reached up to crank, he thought he felt something shift beneath his feet. He faltered a moment, listening for the fatal creak of metal or the whine of splintering wood like firecrackers, but it never came. Heart pounding, he cranked the handle again. He was standing on the tips of his toes, struggling fiercely with the metal. It hurt his hands bitterly and he wished he wasn't going to cry. Then there was a spattering of stones, cackling as they rolled past his feet, and he stumbled. His vision failed him, falling away with the pebbles. He felt himself slipping moments too late and then, suddenly, there was the splash, the turning over of his brain and a disoriented moment of wild confusion. He tried to sit up, but there was nothing beneath him and he could feel the water soaking into his clothes, weighing it down like when he carried sacks of potatoes or wheat, and then there was a pause, a moment of terrible, terrible silence as he went under. The water consumed him like he feared the baler might, one day, sucking him in deeper and deeper than he thought it would every second. It was cold, bitterly cold, and the shock forced his jaw open, and then it was in his mouth and ears and eyes, going in and in and in. He scrambled for the wall, fingers finally finding vines and pulling himself out from the surface. He could taste blood, could smell it, and even in the little light deep, deep down he could see red slowly blooming through the water. He was too scared to cry out, too shaken to do anything but cling to the wall and weep. His father would never find him, his mother would be angry--hadn't she taken ages to make these clothes for him? They were so expensive, too, and he didn't know if they could afford more. 

"Help," he called, choking on water in his throat. The sunlight was weak down here, and even if somebody looked in he was unsure that they would be able to see him. The bucket's clanging up above as it rolled round and round the well was like a funeral bell, tolling and drowning out his cries. 

He would die here, surely. Was it any point kicking? He would run out of energy soon. Should he let himself sink like the rocks he had thrown down here so long ago? Perhaps they were still here, settled at the bottom, waiting gleefully, cackling as they nudged each other in the small waves he made with his kicks. Oh--and he was contaminating the well, too, wasn't he, and the villagers would never know if he sunk too far until they drank the water festering with bacteria and slowly everybody caught the disease, drinking more and more of the water to be well until they all perished. 

There was nothing to be done for him anymore. He let go of the side of the well and felt the water consume him once again.

\-----

The next morning came earlier than Kuguri expected. The sun was already out by the time he was up. Daishou had returned; Kuguri could hear him coughing outside and shuffling his feet along the carpet, a habit he could never quite shake despite Sakijima's complaints that the noise was distracting. He poked his head out the door, raising his eyebrows at him. 

"Somebody came," he said. 

"I know. He's in the next room, looks half-dead." 

Kuguri tilted his head towards the room, and Daishou shrugged. He shuffled over to the room and gave the door a tentative knock. He didn't want to wake Shibayama too abruptly; he knew how disastrous that could be for a newly-bound person. He shuffled inside when there was no answer and saw that it was as he had expected. He bumped into the dirty riding boots by the side of the bed as he sat down, wondering if he should wake Shibayama and eventually deciding not to. 

He waited, looking out of the window at the trees outside that threatened to smother the house with their slowly reddening leaves. They were beautiful. The yellow scattered throughout the branches reminded him of the colour of gilded pages. It had rained in the night; there was the smell of damp grass and soil that drifted in through the gaps in the windows. He got up and began to burn some of the repellent that Daishou kept in the cupboard. The stench would be worth it to stop the mosquitoes from coming in; they could not afford to be ill. There was work to do. 

From where he was with his back turned to the bed, he heard a faint rustling noise. Shibayama must have been roused by the smell of the burning, or perhaps the noise he had made. He needed to be more careful next time. 

"Hello," he said, somewhat pleasantly, eyes searching for some sign that something had gone wrong. "I suppose you're awake now. How do you feel?"

Shibayama was sitting up, staring at him. His hands were fisted in the sheets, and his eyes were wide.

"Don't worry," Kuguri said, deadpan. "I haven't kidnapped you. You were ill. I'm a doctor." 

Shibayama's mouth opened and closed, and he shook his head as though trying to wake himself a second time. He made a face, letting go of the sheets. He tried to speak, but his voice failed. 

"Do--" His voice was hoarse and he shook his head vigorously, clearing his throat. "Do you think I can go home yet?"

Kuguri squinted at him. His eyes seemed fairly clear, though he wondered briefly if he could stand. Different people handled bindings differently. 

"No," he said, slowly. "Of course not." He raised a finger, watching Shibayama's mouth open. "To avoid you trying to complain that I let you go alone and collapse somewhere. We have a reputation to uphold here." 

"I guess so, um... " 

"Kuguri Naoyasu." 

"Kuguri-san." 

"Please do not worry. We have contacted your family. You told us where you lived just before you collapsed. It's quite lucky that you did." It was a lie, of course, but a lie that needed to be told. They had sent a letter, so it wasn't completely a lie, though. "How do you feel? Feverish?"

"Mmn." Shibayama shook his head as though an insect had landed on his head and he was trying to get it off. "I feel fine."

 _How stubborn,_ he thought.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay here for a while yet, Shibayama-san." 

He enjoyed the look of discomfort on Shibayama's face at the _-san_ tacked onto the end of his name. 

"I'm sorry. That's just how it will have to be. I'm sure you will be able to return home by winter." 

"But it's harvest--"

"You are ill. No arguing, please." 

Shibayama shut his mouth, and he left the room.

\--

Shibayama spent the whole of autumn helping Daishou around the house (they didn't usually make bound people do work, but Shibayama insisted, and Kuguri had had to go along with it and say that it would be good for him to regain some of his strength, because a patient couldn't be idle). He could cook rather well, so Daishou let him do it when he couldn't be bothered, and he was good with lifting heavy materials that they needed for binding books. Kuguri was still working on Shibayama's book, though the boy did have the tendency to come knocking just when he was getting started, and he would have to go outside and attend to whatever he was asking about, fighting the urge when startled to slam the half-finished book shut, which would have smeared the glue and ruined it completely. 

Kuguri felt a little guilty for lying to Shibayama, sometimes--especially when he asked after all the binders ("Your work must be hard, dealing with so many ill people. I don't know what people would do without doctors, even if visits are expensive! Make sure to take enough breaks, okay?") and reminded them to rest enough. It was almost enough to make him cave and admit that they were not in actuality doctors. Almost. But he couldn't risk it. There was no way that he could have told Shibayama that he was a binder. It was physically impossible and would have made Shibayama ill, and he couldn't risk having a fatality on his hands. 

He did his best to keep him away from the rooms where they did their work, and the library where all the books were kept. It wasn't like he would have been able to read them anyway, but then he would have known the truth, and, again, Kuguri was not prepared to deal with the fallout. 

He remembered telling the same lie, back when he had first become a binder, when Daishou had first offered him an apprenticeship at the binder's. He had written a letter after Kuguri had fallen sick. ("Binders' fever," Daishou called it. "That's how I knew you had to come to me." He had not elaborated, and Kuguri didn't feel like asking.) He had hidden the letter under his pillow, tucked between casing and bed, he remembered, and he had told his parents he was going to become a doctor. 

How respectable, his mother had said. My son, a doctor! 

He still remembered his father's pleased expression. He had felt terrible, leaving home. He deserved none of the praise that they had given him. He was a binder's apprentice, not a doctor--He should not have cared, not one bit, if he was going to become one, but it felt wrong. There was no way that they would have allowed him to work for Daishou if he had not lied, but then-- 

He remembered his father's face when he had finally told them, and then it was time to go back to work. He did not want to remember. He had to, anyway. 

\--

"Your hands," Shibayama said one morning as he watched Kuguri filing some documents, hovering behind him. "What happened?"

They were bandaged, wrapped in white cloth. It was irritating--first because there was an itch so deep it felt like there were maggots writhing under his flesh, and secondly because he was unable to do his work with sufficient precision, and Daishou had kicked him out of the workplace to do the dirty work and organise papers. 

"I cut myself." He set the papers on their rear and fussed with the sides, making sure they were straight before slicing circular holes into the left side and filing them into a black file. Records of previous patients. 

"On what?" 

His voice was filled with concern, and Kuguri almost felt a pang in his chest. It reminded him of his mother, when he was young.

He paused. 

"Just some scissors." _It's none of your business._

"You have to be careful, or else you can't do your work properly." 

He nodded, somewhat curtly. "Okay. Thank you."

Shibayama stood, still watching, and Kuguri wondered how he had so much energy in the morning. Didn't he have anything better to do? Though--The company was slightly welcome, even if he would never have said it. 

"What are you filing?" 

"R--Medical records. Patients, you know. We have to be sure that--I mean, well. Every doctor keeps records of his patients." The words sounded unsure, even to him, but he kept his voice even. 

"That makes sense." 

They were quiet, and Kuguri found that the silence was not awkward. For once. He felt a strange feeling in his throat, the buildup of words he could not say. The weight in his chest of some strange--

Fondness, he guessed. It was nice to have a friend.

\--

The next day, Kuguri decided that he was fit to go back home. His eyes were the brightest he'd seen them, and he had even lifted a table. Perhaps he had too much strength by this point, Daishou said. 

"I think you're fit to return," he said as soon as he entered Shibayama's room after breakfast, remembering too late that he was supposed to knock. He pretended not to notice as Shibayama fumbled for a shirt. "Were you about to go back to sleep? My apologies." 

"I--" Shibayama's voice was high and squeaky. "I was. Sorry. I can go home now?" 

"Did you not hear me?" He had flung the doors of the Shibayama's--well, not Shibayama's, not anymore, now it was just a cabinet. "Yes. We have new patients to take care of, you know." 

He thought Shibayama looked almost disappointed. Perhaps he was projecting his own emotions onto him--but then _he_ wasn't disappointed. 

"Thank you for taking care of me all this while," Shibayama said, dipping his head. "I'll pay you when--"

"No need." He said, and knew it sounded strange, knew it was illogical, but he could not hurry to reply, so he waited for Shibayama's face to show confusion before he continued. "We're doctors. We're supposed to help. What good is it if we put you in debt?" He knew the words were insensitive, but he didn't take them back.

"Ah--Thank you." 

That was the end of it. 

"I will bring you back," he said, finding it odd how stiff he was. Perhaps he had not slept right? "I don't know the way, so--" 

"I'll walk with you." 

Kuguri notified Daishou, and before he knew it they were on their way. It took a while to walk back, what with the village being so far, and Kuguri found himself wandering into areas he had not been into before. From the binder's (an unreasonably far-flung area, the nearest civilisation to which was a settlement of wealthy merchants) to the village he found that the standard of living decreased the further north they walked. It was a nearly linear path all the way back, and it shook him slightly how different it was. 

The people looked at them curiously each time they passed through a town. Shibayama pretended not to be embarrassed by his patched-up clothes, because Daishou had taken back the clothes he had lent him during his stay, but Kuguri knew that he was putting up a front. He pretended that his leg was not cramping and sped up each time it looked like Shibayama was going to burst. 

"How did you come this far?" Kuguri asked about halfway through their journey, three days in, knowing that it was idiotic to do so.

"I don't know," Shibayama said, honestly. "I just woke up there."

He pretended to be surprised. 

He had never had to walk so far in his life, and though Shibayama was striding faster than he had ever seen anybody walk, he knew that he was slowing down. It was difficult, even for him, not to be at least a little bit embarrassed by that. 

They reached the village after six and a half days' walk. 

It was nearly empty. Kuguri recognised the well in the middle of the village, and noticed with some concern the vigorous blinking fit that seemed to have overcome Shibayama. 

"I'll leave you here," he said, wondering why he did not walk Shibayama back to his house. I'll see you, he considered saying, but held his tongue. 

"Thank you." 

Shibayama bowed, and Kuguri wondered as he walked home why his chest felt empty. 

Guilt, maybe?

\--  
Months had passed. Flowers had begun to spring from the trees, and the air was thick with pollen. Kuguri was lucky enough not to be ill (Daishou couldn't handle the pollen, so he did most of the work). 

"I cannot imagine being this ill," he deadpanned, glancing at Daishou, who was splayed over the couch. "You must be in immense pain."

"Of course I am! Don't you know how excruciating this is? My nose is running. This is a disaster." 

"Poor you." He kept his voice as obviously unsympathetic as he could manage, trying to suppress a snort of laughter as Daishou groaned dramatically. 

Then there was a knock at the door, and something in Kuguri's guts twisted. There was something familiar in the knocking pattern. It was like a whispered "Is anyone there?", as though the knocker was afraid they'd be heard. Which was absurd, since if you knocked at a door your intention was to be heard. 

"You must install a bell," He told Daishou. "I can't hear people knocking half the time." 

"What, did someone knock?" 

_Exactly._

"I will answer it. Again, please put in a bell. It really doesn't cost that much."

"My hero," Daishou said, ignoring his plea and clutching at his chest. 

Kuguri went to the door, finding Shibayama there. His hair was impossibly messier than the previous time, his eyes half-wild. This time he was focused, ultra-concentrated. Kuguri realised with a pang that he had--missed him? His tongue thickened in his mouth with the shock.

"Oh--Kuguri-san! Please--Will you come? Oh, I haven't, uh, my father's been sick and we need somebody to come, he got even sicker real suddenly. The usual doctor wasn't in and, well, I figured I could go to you, you can help, right? You did make me feel better last time--"

Kuguri grabbed him by the shoulders. It didn't feel good shaking him gently, but he had to. "Shibayama. Calm down. Breathe." 

"But, my father--" 

"Calm down." He put his hand on Shibayama's forehead. "In. Breathe in. And, yes, like that, ou--t. In… Out… Okay. You're lucky I remember the way back. Have you got a horse?" 

"So you say yes? You say yes, right?" 

"Why not? I'm a doctor." 

"I've, I've got a horse, borrowed her from somebody, also her name is Briar, but I'm not very fast, and I don't--" 

He hated cutting Shibayama off, but in his state he would talk and keep talking until the cows came home and Shibayama's father actually died. "Okay, I'll ride." 

He had little trouble getting onto Shibayama's horse, wondering why he'd chosen such a large and tall one as Shibayama struggled up onto her back. The horse was warm, comfortable and strangely calm; he'd never seen a horse as still and oddly refined as she was. 

"Let's go, Briar," he murmured into her ear, taking control as she began down the path. It would not do to make her go as quickly as Shibayama told him to go; she would only run out of energy and then they would have to walk the rest of the way, dragging a horse carcass behind them. Still, he kept Briar going at an adequate pace, trying not to be nervous. 

"What did you say your father was down with?" He struggled with keeping his voice steady. They'd gone down a rocky path and it was difficult to speak clearly; there was a creek nearby and its steady gush of water nearly drowned out his voice. 

"He's got a fever. And he's not breathing properly. Are you sure you can help him?" 

"I should think so." He wasn't confident, but it would not do to further cause anxiety and worry for Shibayama. He thought that if he was any further aggravated he might actually go feral as he'd seen one of the boys off the edge of town do before. 

Before long, two days had gone past, and it was night again. They were close now, but not close enough for them to be able to stop worrying. Shibayama's breath had only quickened; Kuguri could feel his heartbeat mounting against his back. 

"Breathe," he reminded him. The air was crisp and sweet as he inhaled too, just to demonstrate. "Come on. You're okay. We'll get there." 

"Hmmnn." He couldn't afford a glance back, but he knew that Shibayama had sucked his lips into his mouth. 

For a moment, his mind wandered. "Put your head on my back," he said. "And then close your eyes, okay? Yeah, that's good." He tried not to shrug his shoulders against the ticklish feeling of Shibayama's arms tightening around his waist. "Yes. Okay, then, let your mind go blank." 

Shibayama must have been tired, he thought; it was a surprisingly short amount of time before he fell asleep. It was a little dangerous, he had to admit, falling asleep on the back of a nearly-stranger on a quick-moving horse. He wondered with the smallest smile how this would look to the village people. Oh, the gossip there would be. If he'd gotten the right impression of them from the memory, they quite liked to talk. 

He tightened his grasp on Briar's reins, murmuring encouragement to her, feeling Shibayama's head bopping against his back ever so gently. He found himself anxious. It was a good thing Shibayama couldn't hear his heartbeat. 

**

They were there by the next morning. Kuguri was half-dead with exhaustion, but then they'd taken it in turns to ride, and he had to admit that Shibayama must have been even more tired, so he pretended to be alright. Shibayama showed him to his house, and there he found his father in bed. 

"It is fever," he confirmed, hand against Shibayama's father's forehead. Daishou had taught him what to use--which herbs were right, and if he remembered correctly they grew not very far from the area. He'd even brought some in the bag he'd managed to grab as he ran out, so it wasn't very difficult for him to give some to Shibayama's father first. 

Gently, he fed them to him, fingers brushing against the man's flushed forehead. His bedsheets were soaked, but as Shibayama had explained, slightly ashamed, there was no time to wash them. Everybody was out in the fields, harvesting the few crops they had that were ready by this time of year and planting new crops for the next harvest, maintaining those that could be harvested later in the year. Shibayama himself had left to work, though once in a while a member of the family would come and look into the window, peering with anxious eyes to check on Shibayama's father.

Kuguri tried his best to stay calm throughout. He was not an easily excitable boy; his mother had once said that it would be easier to make conversation with a stone wall, such was his apathy, but now his heart pounded in his throat as though it meant to leap clear out of his mouth and into the pail he squeezed the edge of the wet bedsheets into. He felt quite ill using the man's own sweat to wipe him down, but there was no saying what might happen if he left for the well. He could not imagine the fear that his family might feel, and that made him scared in turn. He had never seen illness like this before, despite his assurances to Shibayama that he would be fine. _I'm going to Hell,_ he thought each time he said he would be okay, closing his eyes and praying to whatever deity was listening that he was sorry, that he was lying so that he might not scare Shibayama. The poor boy already had quite enough pressure in his life. 

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, meaning his apology as he lifted the sweaty head from its pillow and attempted to dry his sopping wet hair. There was an uncanny resemblance to Shibayama in the crease of his brow, and even the small groan that crept from his throat (which sounded as though it had closed in on itself) carried a tone like Shibayama's own voice. 

As he sat by the man's bed, he clasped his hands together and prayed.

**  
The next morning, the flowers had grown thicker in the trees, nearly smothering the branches and drifting to the ground when they grew too heavy to be supported. The bedsheets, yellow as pollen, stank of urine. There was nothing for it; the bedsheets would have to be changed. Kuguri went to put on his gloves and stopped as Shibayama did, by the door. He turned and looked into Shibayama's eyes, and he knew. 

The first flowers fluttered through the open door into Shibayama's father's hair, as though the earth was apologising for the life stolen from them. 

**  
The funeral was in the autumn; Shibayama's family had not had the means to hold one in the spring. Despite Kuguri's insistence that he could pay, Shibayama refused and worked ever harder, pulling wheat from the ground as though he was killing it, fingers throttling the golden strands. It was not a lavish funeral and it was held in the small funeral house that Shibayama's village had. Kuguri did not weep, though he felt like it. He could not believe that the man had gone so fast; he had expected him to live for at least three more days. Perhaps he had been too hopeful. Shibayama did not cry, either. He held his chin high and his hands fisted by his side with an obstinately neutral expression. There was neither the slightest furrow of his brows nor the tiniest drop of sadness in his eyes. His family wept unashamedly around the cheap coffin, huddled in a small circle, and he felt out of place even when Shibayama's mother came to thank him. 

"It was nothing," he said, wondering why they didn't ask who he was. "Helping people is my job." 

When it was all over, when everybody had left and there was nobody but them, standing by the place where the coffin had been, covered in flowers and the offerings of the best crops of the harvest that had not been sold but instead saved for the funeral, Shibayama finally broke. 

He was silent, kneeling by the empty space, tears dripping down his hands as he tried to hide his face. Kuguri stood by him, watching in silence as he wondered what he should do. Eventually he placed his hand on Shibayama's back, rubbing gently in circles with his thumb. He didn't push him away. 

They stayed there, quiet, until Shibayama's tears had run dry. His eyes were rimmed with red, almost like a raccoon's with how the rings circled his eyelids. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered; his voice was hoarse.

"No matter." 

Shibayama shook his head, dipping it in what Kuguri had learned was his people's way of saying thank you. It was a habit, he guessed, that they could not shake. Binders--those he knew, anyway--sure did have their habits. When anxious or upset, Daishou would make movements as though he were smoothing out paper (though Numai always said it looked more like he was an angry cat kneading into a blanket), and Kuguri would repeatedly hit his leg as though stamping something on a book's cover. 

"I'm sorry I kept you here for so long. I know you need to work, but I just don't need--I mean, I needed you here, and I didn't know who else to go to." His voice was like ice over a lake--even on the surface, but easily broken. 

"No matter," he found himself saying again. "It's fine. I know you needed help." 

He shook his head again and sighed. There was an unspeakable emotion in his eyes, and Kuguri didn't know what to say. _I'm sorry your father died,_ or _I hope your family will be fine._ How could they possibly be? It would be difficult to work with one man down, though at least they would not have to pay for another person's living expenses. Even then--it was better to have to pay than to not have the person. Family seemed to be very important to them. _He's all we had,_ he'd heard a woman say sorrowfully into her handkerchief. Perhaps they found their wealth in people, not what they owned. He guessed that that mindset was wise, for once a man put his heart in his material wealth, he would always crave more; material wealth was plenty. People, on the other hand, were not, if you lived in a village like Shibayama did, and they found gratitude where others did not. He felt respect for them. 

"I'll be at Daishou-san's if you need anything else." He glanced at him to gauge his reaction, adding the honorific for no reason except, strangely, that he didn't want Shibayama to think he was close to Daishou.

Shibayama opened his mouth and closed it, tentatively. There was a shout from outside, and a hushed "Shut up!". Kuguri assumed that it was the village children. 

"The festival has begun," Shibayama said instead of answering him. "I don't--Well. It's going to be crowded, I think." 

"Will your family have any more work this season? Planting or harvesting, I mean."

"No." His tone was slightly sorrowful. Fearful, maybe.

Kuguri shrugged and tilted his head towards the door, and they walked out. He was almost overwhelmed by the shift in atmosphere; inside the funeral house there was a heavy feeling that had settled in his stomach as though somebody had thrown stones inside. Here, in the outside, the air was fresh and less stuffy and there was light shining through the leaves stained with blood red, and there was merry chatter all around. 

"I think my family is at home," Shibayama said as they ducked under branches into the midst of the chaos, glancing at the stalls that had been rolled out into the street. "Must be preparing. For.. The festival, you know? We sell crops. There's”—he gestured at the crowd--"Business." There was something in his eyes that suggested that he did not wish to participate, but he had to anyway. He was his father's only son. 

"I will help you," Kuguri said, leaving no room for Shibayama to protest. 

They did not have to walk long before they met Shibayama's mother along the way, having changed out of her mourning clothes and leaving only a single black rose in her grasp, as she wheeled a barrow filled to the brim with fresh bread. She had been busy making them in the morning; Kuguri had seen her as he arrived from Daishou's house. 

"Yuuki," she called, the false cheerfulness in her voice nearly failing. "Will you help me wheel this? I must go and retrieve more of the food." 

He nodded dumbly, and Kuguri noticed grimly the torn skin along his palms that had come from his violent removal of the crops that had now become the buns that he wheeled. 

Kuguri helped to put the buns out when they were at the festival, his return to Daishou's long forgotten, and before long people drifted by to buy food. He noticed that they were leaving more than the buns cost, and almost brought it up to Shibayama before he realised that they would need the money anyway. Still, however, by the time dusk had come and gone (This was the peak of the festival; most people came to sing and dance by the large fire at the festival's centre to music played on drums and instruments that he didn't recognise) there were still a few buns left. Their smell was no longer as sweet.

"Come," he said. "I'll buy the rest." 

Shibayama's eyes widened despite his fatigue. "I couldn't possibly allow you to--"

"Eat? Feed myself? Not starve? Daishou-san likes buns, you know. I'll buy them for him, too." 

"Hmmn." Shibayama made a helpless noise as Kuguri emptied his allowance into the small tin that they kept by the cart's side. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For helping. And buying the buns." 

Kuguri shrugged and took a bite of a spice bun. It was delicious despite having sat out in the front of the cart for hours (People here took them from back to front, for some reason) and he chewed quite contentedly for a while. The fire burned still out in the front, and people drifted past. Some people were still determinedly dancing, the ladies beginning to trip over their skirts and the men fumbling for the next move. 

"Take some." He offered it to Shibayama, who put his hands up to reject it on instinct. He shook the fresh bun at him. It rustled in the paper they had wrapped it in. "Go on." 

Shibayama glanced at him, brow creasing, but tentatively took it with a small "Thank you" and dip of the head, knowing he would not win the argument if he tried to avoid taking it. 

"It's good. Your mother really knows how to make spice bread."

"And butter buns, yes. She's been baking since I was born." He swallowed. "My father taught her, actually. He is--He was the one who cooked, most of the time. When you came over, when he was sick, it was always my aunt who cooked. You saw her." 

He had seen her, flitting in and out of the kitchen in the outrageous outfits that Shibayama had sheepishly, quickly, warned him of before they'd arrived. He quite liked the floppy hats that she insisted on wearing (especially the one with a large, pop-eyed turkey on the front), despite Shibayama's family's disapproval, and her meals, though sometimes large, were still filling and tasted good. 

"They're good. You know, um, I'm having fun." He sounded awkward to his own ears, but then again, he always sounded awkward, voice too monotonous all of the time to carry enough emotion. He didn't kick himself for it, though; it was good for when he didn't know what to say because he didn't sound any different. 

Shibayama nodded. "Festivals are always fun," he said, voice strained. He was lying. 

When they were finished, they sat quietly by the stall, watching people wheel their own away. The fire would be extinguished soon. The rattle of the carts was loud and jarring over the stone paths. Many were rickety and tattered by the edges, so it was difficult to roll them without getting splinters. Kuguri inclined his head slightly towards Shibayama. He didn't feel pity for him, but he knew that they shared the same emotion. It wasn't a pleasant one, and difficult to describe, but there was a comfort found in knowing that they were in discomfort together. 

Shibayama glanced at him, eyes tearing away from the moon. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words never came. Instead, he sucked his lips in and looked down, but Kuguri knew, and reached out to squeeze his hand gently. Shibayama didn't pull away as he tugged him in for an awkward hug, rubbing his back in irregular circles. 

"You know," he said, quietly. "I'm sure he's proud of you. Your father, I mean." 

Shibayama shook his head into Kuguri's shoulder. "I'm not--I'm not a good son. I'm always making my family upset. I can't do anything." 

Kuguri remained silent, because this sort of thinking was not easily combatted. It didn't go away with a simple "Oh, I'm sure you do actually have some sort of purpose". It was never that simple. Shibayama would have to realise on his own. 

"Did he often bring you to the festival?" 

He nodded, pointing to the campfire that had weakened by now, a messy, flickering mass of flame and ash. "He always managed to sell all the spice buns. Nobody could resist him. He'd bring me to the fire and dance with me. Round and round. My mother knows how to play the fiddle, so normally she'd be there, but--" He cut himself off and inhaled deeply the sweet air. "Yeah. My father." 

Kuguri looked at him for a moment. ''How about I dance with you?" _To make you feel better,_ was left unsaid.

Shibayama blinked. "Umm… Do you know how?" 

"Not really. Teach me." 

There was no music anymore, so Kuguri began to hum a song his mother had taught him as a child, and Shibayama slowly, sheepishly, reached out for his hand. They began awkwardly, movements janky and unpolished as Shibayama instructed Kuguri slowly. It was refreshing, somehow. Kuguri realised that at some point he had stopped humming, and there was no sound except the quiet clack of their shoes against the ground. 

Up--around--

Kuguri struggled a little bit to extend his arm (it being very much longer than Shibayama's, and if he wasn't careful he might actually dislocate the poor boy's elbow), and he thought how strange it was that he had never learned this sort of dance before. He was used to slow, elegant dances, bobbing to music that swelled and swelled, but this one was fast, quick, and sharp--joyful, he supposed, was the word. The sort of dance that people danced for fun. 

The moonlight grazed Shibayama's cheek gentle and cold as if Kuguri had brushed it himself. The knot in his brow as he concentrated was cute, and Kuguri liked-- 

"That's it," Shibayama said, then. "That's all of the dance I know." He laughed softly and did not let go of Kuguri's hand. "Thank you, that was nice." 

Kuguri _really_ liked the glow in his eyes.

**

The days afterward were spent in the fields, sometimes working, sometimes lying in the layers and layers of leaves that had torn from the trees in the wind. Kuguri sent off a letter to Daishou claiming that a family emergency had come up.

"Your hair is like the leaves," Shibayama said one day, plucking a yellow leaf crumpled like paper from his head. "You see? It’s the same colour." 

His voice lacked the same cheerful tone it had had before, from the little Kuguri'd heard of it before the death of his father. It sounded empty. 

"Ah. I see." He took the leaf and turned it round in his hands. It seemed to be glowing in the little sunlight that could pass through the branches. 

Kuguri leaned back into the grass, sighed into the cool air and glanced at the ground. An ant ran over his hand, and it was ticklish, but he didn't feel much like squishing it. He watched as it moved, bustling, with a grain of rice on its head, over and under, running into the leaves until it couldn't be seen any longer. 

"Thank you," Shibayama said. It seemed to be all he could say, and he meant it, but it felt like there was nothing left in him; like if he stopped thanking Kuguri or apologising he would simply sit back and fade into non-existence. There was a small moment where he paused and did not speak, as though waiting for Kuguri to say something. When no reply came, he said, "Let's go milk the cows." 

The tasks that Shibayama gave him were always the easiest ones, and he didn't know if he should have felt offended or grateful (he wasn't actually that strong).

"I think the animals like you," Shibayama said as he got up, smiling a real smile. "The cows will be pleased to see you again." 

"I'll be pleased if Miss Speckles doesn't defacate on my hand again." 

"You'll--Ha!" Shibayama caught himself on a laugh so high-pitched that the both of them jerked, surprised, and he covered his mouth with his hand to giggle a bit softer. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be so loud." 

His voice was happier now.

"No matter." Kuguri found himself smiling. If Numai had seen him, he would have thought him a different person. 

He guessed he liked Shibayama. In a way he wouldn't have fathomed before, but--

He couldn't deny it. It was real, alive, in his chest. 

**

That night, Kuguri helped to chop vegetables for dinner. 

"I'm sorry, but we don't have any rice." Shibayama looked sheepish, almost ashamed, and Kuguri was overcome by the urge to wrap him in his arms. 

"It's okay. I won't die without rice." 

He was comfortable in Shibayama's house, though he felt a little cramped sometimes. It was pleasantly small and easy to navigate, and it smelled like home in a way he couldn't describe. The place he had grown up in had smelled of _house,_ but never _home_ in this way. It was a place to exist--but Shibayama's house was a place to live in. 

"You've been holding your hands strangely," he said, knowing he couldn't possibly have rid Shibayama of the absurd guilt he harboured over not having white rice and deciding to change the topic instead. "You should handle them gentler--Let me see."

Shibayama squirmed around as Kuguri took his right hand and opened the sweaty fingers, staring at the wounds. 

"I'm sorry," he said, automatically.

"For what?" 

Shibayama was quiet, teetering on an _I don't know._

'It's just… My hands are so ugly. Not like yours. My hands are, you know--" He laughed uncomfortably. "Peasant hands." 

Kuguri frowned. "They're not peasant hands. You just--" He bit his tongue. It wasn't fair that Shibayama worked so hard, to the point of physical injury, and that _he_ was the 'peasant'. 

For once he had no words, so he kissed the back of Shibayama's hands instead. 

"I think your hands are nice," he said, softly. 

Shibayama was still, as though he had been shocked, and a flush burst like paint across his cheeks. 

"Your--well--" 

Kuguri ruffled Shibayama's hair with his free hand. "I'm proud that you work so hard. You deserve more white rice than I could ever feasibly provide for you." 

Shibayama made a little groaning noise and squeezed Kuguri's hand. "Okay, I get it." His eyes were a little uncertain, and his mouth quirked as he nibbled at his cheek. 

Kuguri's tongue tensed over the words he felt surging up his throat, and there was no time to check himself before they burst out. 

"I'd like to stay here forever." 

Shibayama laughed a little, but he didn't look away like Kuguri had thought he might. 

"I…" It was difficult to breathe. "I like you." He held back the _I think_ that he felt coming into his throat, because it would have been a lie. 

Shibayama bit at his lip, and Kuguri was pleased to see that his face had turned impossibly redder. His hands were warm. 

"I… Me too?" His voice rose in pitch on the _too._

He couldn't stop the grin that came to his face. He was being strange, but he didn't care anymore.

**  
The next morning, he woke to find Shibayama's head on his chest. The weight of his body was pleasant. It was warm, and it was nice. He had lost all eloquence, all ability to describe anything--It was _good,_ and it felt like enough. He was happy. 

"Good morning," he murmured, apparently to nobody, because Shibayama did not wake. "Sleepyhead," he said, quietly, and touched Shibayama's forehead. It was cool against his fingers. 

He smiled again. He couldn't seem to help the happiness that glowed warm in his chest as though a cat had curled up inside it. 

The morning was quiet. Quiet enough for him to think--

Would Shibayama still have fallen asleep like that next to him if he knew he was a binder? What would he say? Would he have felt--What? What emotion had been on his father's face? Would he still love him? 

Unlike his father? 

Suddenly he thought he might not stay, but then Shibayama stirred, and he was smiling again. 

\--

They ate spice buns together, and Kuguri could not stop himself from lifting Shibayama's hand to his face and kissing it. 

"I'm still thinking," he said. "Your hands are pretty." 

"I--I know." Shibayama shook his head. "You said it yesterday." 

"Well, you need to cement it in your brain forever." 

He made a little squeaking noise, like a mouse, and Kuguri kissed his forehead. 

"Come on. Let's get some work done today, yes?" 

Shibayama's cheeks were still pink when they walked outside.

\--

"I heard," Shibayama's mother said when they got back home, "The neighbour's boy went away to be a binder." 

Kuguri widened his eyes in mock horror. Shibayama put his hands to his mouth. 

"Binder? Like--" He didn't continue. 

"Can you imagine the shame? Having that sort of person in your family…" She gestured, miming slapping an invisible face in front of her. "I think I'd die." 

Shibayama nodded, making a face. 

Kuguri bit his tongue.

\--

"I'm going," he said in the evening, just as Shibayama was about to wash his face. 

"Going? But we just came back in." 

"I mean--" He inhaled sharply. "I mean I'm doing back to Daishou-san's. I've been called up on an emergency. He sent a letter." 

"Ah." Shibayama frowned for a moment, and then his face cleared. "Now?" 

He nodded. 

It felt like somebody was tying knots with his flesh. 

"I'll… Yes. I'll come and visit, sometime." 

Shibayama squeezed his hand, and he pretended that he was alright. 

He brushed back the hair from Shibayama's forehead and kissed it, and then he was gone. 

\--

The wind swept through the streets, kicking the corpses of the failed harvest around. The weeds that had survived stood like statues, ready to crack and fall apart at any given moment. The well, the lifesource for many of the townspeople, had completely frozen over. 

He hadn't heard from Shibayama in a while. He wondered if he was going to write soon, but he couldn't spend too long writing letters or the other binders would tease him--"Hey, Kuguri, you got a girl, huh?"--and risk getting pissed off. 

People were too nosy for his liking, sometimes. It wasn't like they'd even be able to accept the truth if he told them, so they shouldn't even have bothered asking. 

He stared out the open window. 

"What, waiting for mail, Kuguri?" 

He tried his best not to startle, instead turning around slowly with an unconvincing smile. "Who would write in this weather? Sending anybody out there is suicide. No, I'm not waiting for any letters, I simply enjoy looking out the windows. It's quite pretty outside." 

"In winter? You'll freeze your…" He paused. Winced. "Mika said i shouldn't say that." He seemed to be mentally berating himself, or at least remembering a time where Mika had berated him. "You know, even if you wait for that boy to send you letters--"

This time, he actually flinched, looking wildly round for the others. "I'm not waiting for Shibayama to send me anything!" 

"I didn't even say his name. You're a liar. Whatever. You know, just staring won't make the mail come faster. Come on, do some work at least." 

"Do you need anything bound?" Oh, Daishou knew--he tried not to panic, internally. Panic? It was definitely Shibayama's influence. 

"Yeah. Good for you, finally you understand that he's---not--oh. Okay. Never mind. I have never been more objectively incorrect." 

Kuguri looked back out the window, watching Daishou's expression go from teasing to tensed like a leopard ready to pounce. He wondered for a moment before he saw Shibayama's expression. It was the same as before, in summer. 

"Hello," he said carefully, looking to Shibayama's companion. "I'm--"

"Kuguri Naoyasu. Yes, I know all about you." There was something in the person's voice, low and threatening, that he didn't like. 

"You do? Well, I assume he's here for a binding. Am I correct?" He hated him. 

At the word 'binding', something in Shibayama reacted, but his expression returned to pain and fatigue so quickly that Kuguri wondered if he'd imagined it. Perhaps it was the experience before--he knew what Shibayama would be feeling. No, everything was like this. Why did he think Shibayama was any different? 

"You do know that he's been here before, yes?"

What was it about this person? 

"Yes. I'll pay you for that, too."

"No need." 

"What, did he pay you with his--" The person stopped, glaring at Shibayama. "Never mind. You know. You should know. You, of all people." He sneered, reared like a snake about to bite. Then Kuguri knew. 

He knew this man from--from the letters, those were his riding boots, he knew that man from--the memory. The memory in shibayama's book. 

How dare he. 

"Come in, sir," he half-snarled. Daishou was hovering behind him again, and he had the overwhelming urge to shrug him off but stopped himself just in time. Then, pointedly, "Yuuki." 

"Shibayama," the man said. "Do you want to forget?" 

Kuguri looked at him. looked into his eyes, something in his heart daring him to shake his head. He knew Shibayama not to be a quitter, but he was nervous. His heart was skittering, like a tiny mouse's, beating faster and faster until he thought he might have begun to shake. Disgusting. There was fear, definitely, venom biting into his veins. 

It's not over. It's not over. 

"If he doesn't want to forget, sir, I'm afraid we can't conduct the…" He mouthed 'binding', speaking in the most even tone he could manage, even throwing a malicious, falsely sweet smile in. He hoped it looked more like he was baring his teeth, because he was more than prepared to bite this man. 

He wanted to growl, to show his teeth and rip at his jugular, but decided to conceal his emotions. It was no use to be angry and have Shibayama affected by it. This man was wasting his time. Asshat.

Daishou was looking at him now, questioning-- _What's your next move?_

"I want to forget," Shibayama said. Looked him in the eye. "I want to. I asked to come." 

Shibayama's voice had never been this firm. Something in Kuguri died. The binding couldn't proceed without Shibayama's consent, but with it, them being a business, it _had_ to proceed. And he couldn't do it, but he had to, and he wanted to but he didn't but--

"Come in, then," he said through clenched teeth. "Please be mindful of the step." 

He turned, tried to read Shibayama's face. Was he lying? He was a pushover, after all. Would he have been easily pushed into making such a decision? He wondered if it was real, any of it. Breathing felt like a struggle, but it could always have been the cold air. He sucked in his cheeks and re-arranged his expression into a neutral one again.

Then they were going back up into the library. 

"Please leave," he said to the man. 

"Leave?"

"I mean go out of the room."

"Why can't I be here?" 

Kuguri shrugged. "Out." 

He shooed the man out with his hands, staring him in the eyes and fighting the urge to shiver at the coldness and emptiness he found inside. This was what he'd been warned of--human monsters. These were the kind of people he couldn't bear to bind, those who came not because of what had been done to them but because of what they'd done to other people.

"Shibayama. Are you sure?"

It was quiet. Shibayama was looking at--no, through him, but then suddenly his eyes cleared. He didn't look quite so ill for a moment. 

"Why can't I make my own decisions, Kuguri? Yes. I'm sure."

Kuguri placed his hands on Shibayama's shoulders again, touch tentative, ginger, as though in a moment he would pull away. Maybe it was better this way.

"You must forget me, too," Shibayama said. "It will do you no good to remember. You are intelligent, Kuguri. I hope you understand." 

He didn't. 

Still, he kept his hands on Shibayama's shoulders. It hurt, not seeing a reaction as he squeezed gently at the tense bundle of muscle. It hurt, glancing at his blank expression reflected in the glass on the wall. He closed his eyes, sucking a breath that stung like eating glass as he lived through it again--the first time Shibayama'd been here, the ride back home, when he'd returned to the village, when they'd worked together, and the kisses, the touches and the warmth, and then he lived through things he hadn't been there to see. When Inuoka came to tell him Kuguri wasn't a doctor, after all--and-- _wrong,_ everything was wrong. When Inuoka had cried, because _how could you, Shibayama? After all the time I've known you are you're one of them--_ and when he had apologised and Inuoka hadn't smiled back at him until he'd wept at his feet. The bitter taste of betrayal, of being too tired to work anymore, and being too worried about being lazy to concentrate on anything else. 

Rotten. That was the feeling throughout it all. He just didn't want to be disgusting anymore.

Then Shibayama went limp against him and he found himself holding back the bile that rose in his throat. 

"Daishou," he called. 

He didn't ask why he was crying.


End file.
